There was an immediate and muddled chorus of shouting, most of which seemed to favor Bivar, the leader of the slavers. But there was a distinct splinter group supporting the skinny man called Jesus.
“Yeah, we work off our asses and the boss men at the mine take all the silver and we get the sweat.”
“We get paid.” Bivar stood, swatting at a stubborn mosquito with his hat. “We get paid good. For chasing flies out of their stinking villages. That hard work, brothers? I think not. Big pay and low risks.”
“We have lost men. Too many in the last days,” complained another member of the gang.
“Sure. There was Jose by the water trough.”
Another voice cut in. “Garcia and Alfredo out there in the fields.”
“Miguel outside the old mission, by the ruins of the great house.”
Bivar laughed. “Listen, stupes! We just removed a little ugly fat, is all. Lean animal travels fastest and wins all the fuckin’ prizes.”
“Them Jaguar people didn’t give us too much shit,” someone shouted from the side of the fire. He was a stout man, with a long mustache, wearing a jacket sewn with pearls.
Bivar spun and pointed at the speaker. “Sure, Diego. Sure, you speak the truth, all right.”
Ryan noticed that Bivar was now wearing a Model 66 Smith amp; Wesson Combat Magnum revolver in a holster at his right hip. It was an enormously powerful .357 revolver capable of blowing a hole in six men in a line.
“But why we have to take out the whole village, Jefe ? Always we leave a little corn in the fields for next year.”
The fat Manuel grinned, flashing his gold tooth in the firelight. “We left the old men and bitches and babies to make the ground rich.”
The cruel joke was greeted with a burst of laughter from everyone.
Krysty whispered to Ryan. “They chilled or captured the whole of the Jaguar village?”
“Sounds that way.”
“Least Itzcoatl and his people are likely safe from that danger.”
Ryan shook his head. “If they picked that particular peach off the tree, then it sounds likely the demand’s outstripping the supply.”
“Oh, yeah. You reckon they might pick on our village for their next raid?”
Ryan eased his position, stretching out his right leg. “Getting a charley horse,” he said.
“But what”
“Quiet, lover. We’ll hear plenty more by listening than by talking.”
“The dagos got a big strike up north there,” Bivar said, strutting around, hands on hips, preening himself like a dunghill cockerel. “And we help them.”
“Why they not look after the slaves better?” asked someone who was sitting with his back to Ryan and Krysty.
“If they do, then they don’t need us, you stupe fuck! We want them to keep whipping them natives from dawn to dusk and all the fuckin’ way back again.”
“Hey, Rodrigo?” Jesus said, standing and reaching for the bottle, taking a great gulp from it.
“What is it?”
Ryan nudged Krysty, but she’d already noticed that the leader of the slavers had casually reached down and thumbed the retaining cord off the hammer of his blaster, on the blind side to the man called Jesus.
“I think you mebbe don’t listen to Jesus anymore. You say there’s old Jesus and he works pretty good and he do like I say and all that shit. But good old Jesus he got things to say as well as the others.”
“Get to the point, my old amigo.” The hand was now resting on the butt of the Smith amp; Wesson Magnum.
But the other man was so far gone with liquor that he didn’t seem to hear the question, swaying back and forth, the bottle forgotten in his hand. Singing a snatch of “Adelita,” he shaded his eyes and stared out past the ring of fire, into the forest beyond, seeming to look straight at Ryan and Krysty. Both began to draw their blasters, not wanting to make any sudden movement that might give them away.
“I ask you a question, Jesus,” Bivar said insistently. “What you look at, loco?”
“Thought saw something in trees.” He shook his head. “Mebbe I don’t see so good with the smoke in my eyes. Hey, I was saying we did too much work.”